


Armageddon: Round Two

by apple_pi



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-25
Updated: 2011-02-25
Packaged: 2017-10-15 22:36:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/165551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apple_pi/pseuds/apple_pi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wasn't wearing his sunglasses, and if ever a fallen angel, citizen of hell and minion of Lucifer, needed sunglasses, it was now. Bright sunlight had, in the instant he'd opened his eye, jabbed into the inmost recesses of his brain. Painfully. Very painfully.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Armageddon: Round Two

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elouisa](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Elouisa).



Hastur was beating him about the head and shoulders with a flaming mallet. Or maybe it was Ligur, it had to be one or the other of them, Crowley thought, as no one else would have put such heart (ha, as if) into it.

"Augh, stop, get off!" he whimpered, and was rather surprised that they hadn't yet (apparently) cut out his tongue. "Get off, I'm sorry, what do you want me to do, re-invent the inland revenue?"

"I should have known that was your fault," said a miserable voice, and the beating stopped. "Wake up, demon."

Crowley cracked one eye open, and shut it again just as quickly. There were lots of things wrong.

One: He wasn't wearing his sunglasses, and if ever a fallen angel, citizen of hell and minion of Lucifer, needed sunglasses, it was now. Bright sunlight had, in the instant he'd opened his eye, jabbed into the inmost recesses of his brain. Painfully. Very painfully.

Two: He wasn't in his state-of-the-art, adjustable-firmness, streamlined, so-very-new-it-looked-like-an-antique bed. He was on a mattress. On the floor. Under a blanket that felt like... chenille? "Oh, _bless_ ," he moaned, and curled into a tighter ball.

Three: The angel was sitting up beside him. On the mattress, on the floor, in the dusty room that must be part of (Crowley was working it out, oh, he was a clever demon, anyone who'd ever tried to have their car dealership pay for a repair and been buggered by the fine print would have to admit Crowley's cleverness) the angel's flat, over the newly restored bookshop, with its apparently newly restored dust and clutter.

Four: He hurt. Everywhere.

"I thought it was all called off," he whined, clutching at his head. "I thought we stopped Armageddon."

"I don't think this is Armageddon," Aziraphale said. His voice was the colour and consistency of the sand that gets down one's bathing suit at the beach. "I think." There was a pause, and Crowley began to grope blindly about on the floor, hoping he'd find his sunglasses. "I think it might be a... hangover?"

Oh, there they were, thank Chri – thank Go – thank someone; Crowley was in far too much pain to concentrate hard enough for a new pair of shades. "What in hell are you talking about, angel?" he demanded irritably, jamming the old ones – ouch – onto his face and opening his eyes again. Better. Just barely.

"Hell, yes," Aziraphale agreed hollowly. "This would definitely be one of your people's ideas. Nothing heavenly about this."

Crowley rolled onto his back and groaned. "Why didn't you sober me up?"

"Why didn't _you_ sober _me_ up?" Aziraphale answered irritably. Or rather, as irritably as Crowley had heard him sound since, oh, say, the day before yesterday. "Or yourself, for that matter." Crowley heard a sad little sigh and looked over to see the angel with his head resting on his drawn-up knees. "Bugger."

"Did you just –" Crowley struggled upright, mirroring Aziraphale's position – "curse?" Grinning hurt, but everything hurt.

To his delight, the angel blushed, fair skin reddening as his eyes squinched shut even more tightly against his kneecaps. "...Nnn..." Crowley could have sworn he was trying to lie. Aziraphale lifted his head and opened his eyes miserably. "Yes, of course I did."

Crowley looked around (carefully) and then back at Aziraphale. "And the world hasn't ended," he smirked.

Aziraphale blushed harder. "I did it the other day," he admitted in a whisper. "I think I might have got in the habit."

Crowley laughed, and it was the first thing that hadn't hurt since he woke up. "There's hope for you, yet, angel," he said, and summoning up a few extra ounces of willpower, he banished both their hangovers and stood, offering Aziraphale a hand. "Come on, there's a Sunday brunch at the Savoy that's to absolutely live for."

Aziraphale smiled and let himself be pulled to his feet, though his face was still rather endearingly pink. "Oooh, I am suddenly a bit hungry," he said. "Should we call ahead for a table? I'm always so nervous about just –" he gestured vaguely – "showing up."

Crowley rolled his eyes (he could do that, now it wouldn't cause him excruciating agony) and patted Aziraphale's hand. "I think we'll get away with it," he said.


End file.
